Perhaps There is Serenity in the Floating of Ghosts
by ImpalaLove
Summary: Tag to 13x05 Advanced Thanatology. "Death once told Dean that he throws his life away too easily, always assuming it will bounce right back to him. Like a rubber ball. Only thing Death got wrong is that for the most part, Dean doesn't care if his soul is a rubber ball or a goddamn block of cement."


**Tag to 13x05 Advanced Thanatology. Because there was a lot of deep, deep crap going on in this episode and I feel like some of it got ignored because SPOILER ALERT someone came back to life and 'made it all better.' Sorry, I'm off my soapbox now, haha. Onto the story.**

* * *

 **Perhaps There is Serenity in the Floating of Ghosts**

Dean barely thinks about it anymore.

It's just another step to take, another option they have when things go south and there's no time for a different action plan. Maybe that thought would be scary, if he lingered on it for long enough. But Dean doesn't let himself think too hard or too long about anything these days, because that's how all the wounds open up and all the pus starts spilling out. He's afraid the infection has spread too far by now. He's afraid it would never _stop_ spilling out, and then what would he do? Where would he dump it all?

Certainly not into the lap of his little brother, no matter how wide Sam spreads his arms and beckons.

Death once told Dean that he throws his life away too easily, always assuming it will bounce right back to him. Like a rubber ball. Only thing Death got wrong is that for the most part, Dean doesn't care if his soul is a rubber ball or a goddamn block of cement. Most times, it doesn't matter if he comes back at all. It only matters who he saves.

And if he fails? If it's Sam's life on the line and a bottle of barbiturates and a talk with a reaper won't bring Sam back to him? Well. Then Dean's better off dead, anyway.

And even this time, when Sam is wide-eyed and alive right next to him, wondering why his big brother suddenly has a syringe curled inside a fist, Dean doesn't see it as an irrational risk, really. This is just the job, same as it's always been. They just know more now. They've both died enough times now.

Either they come back or they don't.

Dean finds his heart, makes sure he can hear it beating loud against his chest, and that's where he sticks the needle. He watches Sam's face for a moment, before things start to fuzz around the edges, and he wonders why it's just them. Wonders why he and Sam are the only ones whose lives and deaths act like the arc of a stubborn boomerang that never gets caught between the branches of a tree or trapped inside the jaws of the neighborhood dog or hellhound or whatever it could've been this time. It always comes back. _They_ always come back. Everyone thinks it's such a tragedy to die, but Dean knows better.

The real curse- the truest Hell- is being the only one left behind.

When he thinks about it after (or maybe it's the moment right before he topples over, when he's just seen his brother's expression), he realizes he was choosing to leave Sam behind. He was leaving his brother in Hell all alone. The guilt pools inside his gut so suddenly, it feels like he's about to lose his lunch. Again.

The first time had been almost immediately upon waking, coughing back to life like he's done so many times before. It feels the same every time, and it's strange that he knows the sensation of breathing through lungs that have been stagnant for far too many minutes, trapped in the middle of a last exhale that never quite sits right inside his chest. It's painful. Every single time he's done it.

Sam is the first sound he hears aside from the restarting of his own blood moving inside his veins, a pounding of his renewed heartbeat that pummels along the edges of his cheeks and digs claws inside the backs of his eyes. The headache is immediate, the nausea overwhelming.

"You're okay," he hears Sam breathe, just as he leans over to retch into the carpet. He feels Sam reach for him, knows his brother can feel him shaking, breath still coming rough and rapid as his body fights to remember how to keep him alive.

"Mm 'kay," he says, the mumbled repetition of Sam's affirmation sounding anything but reassuring. He clears his throat and says it again. It still tastes a little bit like a lie, but at least it sounds a bit stronger to Sam's ears.

"What were you thinking?" Sam growls. He grabs for the back of Dean's jacket, pulls and maneuvers him until they're both sitting propped up against the wall of the staircase. Dean feels the rough scratching of salt against his dragging fingers, takes in the now disturbed circle of white that looks a little too much like the chalk-drawn outline at a crime scene.

"I mean, what the _hell_ were you thinking?" Sam's breathing almost as hard as Dean, his fingers still curled tightly into the shoulder seam of Dean's coat, chin trembling and eyes wild and still not looking at his brother. That is the thing that almost makes Dean sick again. That, and the remorse that sits heavy against his skin. Because it's not remorse for scaring his brother.

It's for wishing he hadn't woken up.

It takes another minute, but Dean is the one who moves first. He shifts until Sam's hand drops away from him and he can reach the now empty syringe with the intention of returning it to its container. He's barely grabbed onto it before it's smacked cleanly from his hand, sent rolling right up to the edge of the stair's railing.

"Hey," Dean protests weakly, blinking in still-groggy confusion and meeting Sam's dead-on stare.

"I got it," is all Sam says, but his expression says a lot more. Dean swallows and nods, starts pulling himself to his feet. It takes a while, and by the time he's got himself propped up against the stained glass behind him, Sam's got the weapons bag packed and slung over his shoulder. He reaches for Dean next, but Dean shakes him off.

"I got it," Dean says, echoing his brother yet again.

He makes it a couple steps, far enough to slam his hip into the banister and almost topple straight over it, momentum carrying him forward until Sam's grip on his forearm pulls him back.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam mutters, anger and residual fear punctuating the words like an insult.

"Sorry," Dean says, and he hopes Sam knows there's a _for everything that just happened_ tacked onto the end. Sam doesn't say anything else, just waits for Dean to settle against the banister and then guides him slowly down the long set of stairs. Dean's winded by the end of it, stomach rolling and drops of perspiration slithering their way down his spine like the searching nails of a succubus. Sam stays next to him, still not speaking, just waiting for Dean to get his breath back. And then they move again, Sam fumbling a little bit with the front door while he tries to keep one arm locked around Dean.

The sunrise catches them both by surprise, and they freeze simultaneously. Sam lets out a loud huff, shakes his head a little at the startling blend of orange and pink that is bleeding out into the sky, as if he can't believe another day could just... _begin_ after what they've just seen and done.

 _If you only knew, little brother_ , Dean thinks. He's not planning on telling Sam much, to be honest. And it's not any kind of strategy, really. He's not actively trying to keep things from Sam. They've learned that lesson a million times. Dean knows the whole thing about Billie being the New Death will come out eventually, but it's not exactly pertinent to this particular moment in time, and Dean's not up for rehashing all that she'd said.

 _You've got work to do._

It's a phrase they've used before, countless times, but it sounds dirty coming from her. Sounds too much like:

 _It's not blame that falls on you, Dean. It's Fate._

And he's so tired.

So goddamn tired of feeling those puppet strings moving above his head, twirling and twisting together until he's too tangled up to move an inch on his own. He wishes someone would just snip the strings, even if it means he'd never walk again.

Because how many times do they have to be a part of some larger, cosmic picture before the universe finally gives them a goddamn break? Before it realizes that he can't save anything anymore. At least, not the things that matter to him. And even if that's not the point, even if it's something _else_ , how much does he stand to lose? How much more could he _possibly_ sacrifice for this "Greater Good" he's never even caught a goddamn glimpse of, always staring out at it from the other side? What's a world saved if there's no one left he loves inside of it? What's another sunrise if Mom and Cas and Dad and Bobby and Kevin and Ellen and Jo and Charlie and a thousand other names that mean something aren't even here to see it?

So yeah. There's no goddamn strategy. Dean's just kind of slapping bandaids everywhere, hoping a few of them actually staunch some of the bleeding, at least cover up a little bit of the damage. But Sam doesn't need to know that. He really, really doesn't.

Dean blinks against the sunrise and starts to fold a little bit, the last bits of his energy seeping into the floorboards of the porch below his feet.

"No no no," Sam urges, pulling his gaze from the clouds to pat Dean's cheek a little and get him moving again. "Just to the car, okay? Let's get to the car."

Dean groans but nods, forces his body to move in what he imagines is more of an outright lurch than an actual stride at this point. But he makes it, lets himself be folded into the passenger seat. Sam guides him down and leaves the door propped open, and Dean doesn't miss the way Sam's fingers spend a little too long pressed against the pulse point at his wrist. Counting.

"I'll call it in," Sam says once he seems satisfied that his brother's heart is, in fact, still beating. Dean is barely listening, has melted into the passenger seat with his eyes closed and his head still pounding out an unsteady yet insistent beat. He feels Sam move away for a moment, feels the car jolt when the weapons bag lands back in the trunk. Dean peeks out from under his eyelashes, catches a glimpse from the side mirror of Sam putting a phone to his ear. He listens to the sound of his brother's voice, only picks up a few words here and there, just letting himself drift a little bit.

"Hey. _Hey_. Stay awake, Dean. Cops should be here soon." Sam's lost the wild, panicked edge to his voice now, but that commanding tone never fails to gets Dean's attention, and his eyes snap open. He groans against the migraine, leans forward and brings a palm up to rub behind his right eye.

"I'm not...I can't give you anything for that," Sam says, because of course he already knows about the damn headache.

"S'okay," Dean mumbles, swinging his legs outside the car so his feet are flat on the ground, elbows to knees, now with both palms kneading themselves into his skull. Dean doesn't really open his eyes much for the next little while, but he can hear Sam shifting around, pacing alongside the car, stopping to stare at Dean, pacing again. He tries to picture the faces Sam might be making, traces the wayward strands of disheveled hair and the slant of those expressive eyebrows in his mind until the pulsing fades to throbbing and he has enough energy to stand up.

"Hey, hey," Sam says again, reaching out with steady hands, but Dean shakes him off successfully this time and shoots him an easy smile.

"I'm good, Sam," he insists, though the pain in his head shifts back up a few notches when the police cars come into view with sirens blaring, shattering the stillness of the morning.

The conversations with the cops won't stick for too long in Dean's mind, but Mrs. Raider's face will. He's mid-sentence, spewing some kind of bullshit to the officer in front of him when her car pulls up. He keeps talking but doesn't take his eyes off her, though he wants to. She doesn't pause to close her car door, seat belt dangling long and loose. She just rushes to the first police officer she can find.

"Where's Shawn?" he hears her ask. "Where's my boy?"

Dean excuses himself from his current conversation and turns away before he can see her knees hit the ground.

Still hears the sound she makes, though.

He knows Sam must go to her right away though, because his Good Samaritan of a brother has already helped her back to her feet, tight grip on her wrist by the time Dean's reached the Impala and thrown a quick glance back over his shoulder.

* * *

"How'd it go?" he asks stupidly once Sam's finally joined him at the car. It's a deflection, he knows, and Sam must know it too, because he gets right to the point.

"Hey. What happened back there? I mean the shot...didn't work. And then all the sudden you're back."

Dean sticks to that half-assed non-strategy-strategy, chooses to just keep it simple. He's ready to pass out for the next day and a half. Maybe longer. He's ready to never think about this again.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "I guess it took a minute for the drug to kick in. Guess I got lucky."

"Lucky?" Sam asks, and Dean knows he's thinking what they're always thinking: when do the _Winchesters_ ever get lucky? When do things work out for them?

But Dean just shrugs, says "yeah," and starts to move for the driver's side of the Impala, ready to put everything in the rearview, same as always. Sam stops him.

"Wait wait wait. Hold on. Dean. Hold on a second." Dean doesn't want to, but he holds on. Turns back to face his brother again. "What about the ghosts?" Sam presses. "Because I checked the EMF. They're all gone. Was that lucky too?"

"We can talk about it later," Dean tries. Barely gets the words out before Sam pushes again.

"We won't talk about it later," Sam says. "You know that."

Dean knows. That's why he says it. It's a trick that's been working for years.

 _Not right now, Sammy, took one too many hits to the head tonight._

 _Let me clean the blood off first, Sammy._

 _We gotta get out of here, Sammy. Cops will be here soon._

 _I just gotta sleep it off. We'll talk in the morning, Sammy._

And usually, his brother complies. But Dean looks at Sam now and sees that he's not walking away from this without pulling back at least one of those fraying band aids pressed against the fabric of the last few months. Hell, maybe the last few years. Dean bets that if he pulls back enough layers, he'd find the tattered remains of decades-old wounds, hastily taped together beneath shaking fingers, never to be revisited.

Dean sighs, makes the mistake of looking back at Mrs. Raider again. She looks a little dumbstruck now, as if she's been hit by too much, too fast, and nothing's really sticking. Dean finds Sam's face again. Thinks about all the times he's diverted the conversation, all the things left inside of him, all the words that cling to his throat and get caught between the gaps of his ribs. He thinks maybe if Shawn would've just said a few of those words, maybe they could've saved him. Maybe he'd still be alive and his mom wouldn't have to be standing there looking like _that_.

Dean wonders if any of his own lost words would taste better falling off his tongue. He wonders if he would find freedom or even salvation in that.

So Sam says _not later, now_ , and Dean talks. Tells Sam about Billie as the New Death and the world's cosmic plan for them and it makes his stomach turn all over again, though it's not the after effects of the drug still running through his system.

"So now you don't believe anymore?" Sam asks when he's done, and it feels like something's shattered and Dean wishes to God or Chuck or whoever that he'd just kept his mouth shut, that he'd just ridden this out the way he used to be able to instead of spewing his goddamn blood and guts and ugly innards all over Sam's waiting hands because now they're both covered in the slop of it and there's just no way to clean it all up. Dean should've known there was never any way to make it better.

Only difference is, now Sam's caught a glimpse of the damage.

Part of Dean understands that Sam has already known. It was the strip club and Jimmy Page and an offered beer first thing in the morning. It was a car ride with no complaints about the blaring music.

Dean thinks of all the ways he could keep talking, all the things he could say now that Sam is looking at him with those big, sad eyes and waiting for him to spill a little more onto the dirt drive at their feet. He winces at the sore spot above his heart, refrains from reaching a hand up to press the pain back.

"I just need a win," is what Dean says, in the end. "I just need a damn win."

He drops himself into the driver's seat, barely waiting for Sam's door to slam before he's pulling away from the house that used to be filled with too many ghosts to count. He wishes all spirits could disappear as easily as Billie had allowed the victims of Dr. Meadows to dissipate. Dean wonders if they've all found peace, finally set free from it all. Dean knows death better than most, but that doesn't mean he understands it. He just wishes he could know for sure- that the people he's lost are somewhere better. And he wishes his own ghosts didn't crowd so close all the time.

He wishes he didn't envy them.

* * *

 **I know this was dark and stuff but if you know anything about my writing, it's kind of expected by this point. I also think it's kind of important to jump into Dean's headspace here, because while the Winchesters have made plenty of sacrifices over the course of the show, whether it's for the world or the people they save or for each other, this instance in 13x05 felt very, very different to me.**

 **On a semi-related note: I know not many people read my stories, but I'm super appreciative to those of you who do. If any of you ever find yourself in a similarly dark headspace and need someone to talk to, please know that I'm here. Always, any time. Thanks again for reading.**


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